


I'm Here. Always... (POV 3)

by Lucky7



Series: 1 Story - 3 POV's [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Finch, Recovery, Rescue, Reunion, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucky7/pseuds/Lucky7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The last thing Harold Finch hears are shots reverberating through the com link. What follows is a phenomenon that has become increasingly more frightening with every Number he sends his employee to investigate, every instance he sends Mr. Reese…John…into a dangerous environment.<br/><b>(Finch POV for ‘We Still Ain’t Dating’ and ‘But Are We Friends?’)</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rescue

The last thing Harold Finch hears are shots reverberating through the com link.

What follows is a phenomenon that has become increasingly more frightening with every Number he sends his employee to investigate, every instance he sends Mr. Reese…John…into a dangerous environment: _…dead air._

Over the months since he hired the ex-agent, their communications improved exponentially, becoming more efficient with each new upgrade: first working with only hand held phones, then with a head phone and blue-tooth earpiece, and finally with ITE devices that are as sensitive as they are invisible.

He - who always maintained that to be predictable is to be vulnerable - cannot now envision being disconnected from John Reese for any length of time while working a Number. Sometimes even keeping the connection open when the ex-op is not working directly on a case, a situation of which he hopes John is not aware.

But that is probably an overly optimistic expectation as the ex-op is…to use John’s favorite saying…‘smarter than the average bear’. More than once he was caught listening in without participating.

_“Are you hearing this, Harold?”_

_“I’m here. Always.”_

Which is why Finch is now completely unnerved!

Even under the most taxing circumstances, John has managed to keep the link intact, and to now lose that connection, knowing that a fire fight is underway is…terrifying. Unable to rouse even a static response, he goes on auto-pilot, checking the various devices, trouble shooting connections, but knowing this is simply wasting time.

The most obvious answer to the why of the lost link is of course that his employee is temporarily “down” and has lost the com earpiece, and/or his phone. The possibility that the ex-op is mortally injured and down permanently is something he simply can’t address. Won’t address…

Hard on the heels of that last thought, his facile brain runs through various actionable items and with his choice made, he quickly dials a familiar number.

“Detective? I need your assistance…”

 _“Finch?”_ Carter replies, _“Sorry, but I’m in the middle of a deposition. Can this wait? I should be through in about 30-40 minutes.”_

Half an hour? Even five minutes will be too long! Finch forces himself to reply with a calm he doesn’t feel as his anxiety starts rising. “No, that’s alright Detective. I’ll find another way.”

_“Did you try Fusco? He was at his desk when I left the precinct.”_

“Thank you Detective.” Finch taps the key to end the call.

Fusco.

Not his first choice for a rescue, although he reluctantly admits the detective has been helpful to them on a fairly reliable basis over these past many weeks. But he still remembers only too well the portly policeman made a valiant attempt to kill John, and not just once! Those are offences he can’t easily forgive. Carter at least made up for her one transgression by helping him whisk Reese out from under collective CIA noses at the critical moment. But Fusco?

Detective Fusco is still on probation as far as he’s concerned. Numerous times he warned John, first obliquely then plain bluntly, that turning a dirty cop into an asset could easily transpire into a big mistake. Perhaps a fatal mistake.

But John evidently sees something in this person that he does not. His own biggest weakness is the inability to really understand what motivates other people; he is aware of that and accepts the deficiency. And given that there aren’t a lot of options on the table, he lifts his hand, hesitates, then reluctantly taps the keypad again. He’s putting his faith in John’s better ability to judge the dirty cop…

_“Fusco here.”_

Finch swallows his uneasiness as he starts his request as before, “Detective, I need your assistance.”

_“Hey, Professor! It’s been a while. What can I do for you?”_

The detective’s cheery notes grate, but the cop isn’t yet aware of what has occurred so he consciously calms his voice, tersely explaining his need for help. The big question is: has this pet sufficiently bonded with the ex-op to willingly to go into harm's way to help?

Surprisingly the chubby cop does not equivocate. With no more than the request he assist Mr. Reese on a job, Fusco’s quickly on the move, calling for the most direct route to John’s last GPS coordinates. The screeching tires and traffic noise he hears through the detective’s phone verifies the cop is making good use of the cruiser’s ample horsepower as he speeds toward the dock area.

Finch can only hope there won’t be any major pile ups as a result…

During the 15 minutes it takes for the detective to bully his car through the cross-town traffic they have little to say other than exchange information on traffic issues; on Finch’s part because he's busy creating various contingencies should they prove necessary; on Fusco’s part, because he’s busy barreling through the city, trying not to attract the attention of other uni's…

But Finch understands there’s more behind their lack of conversation. He’s aware the detective holds him in awe, not so much because of intelligence issues or an ability in the realm of technology, but because the cop perceives he, a man weakened and crippled, has somehow managed to put a leash on the most lethally talented human being Fusco has probably ever met.

That puts Finch on a lofty perch, a position of power he is not above using to his advantage if need be.

 

***

“Please hurry, Detective. Time is of the essence.” Finch strives to keep the angst out of his voice. “The police have already been notified of shots heard…”

_“Wonderful. So what am I going to find? Your boy bleeding out…?”_

“I sincerely hope not,” he replies. Oh, God…please not!

It’s been a long twenty minutes before he’s gotten Fusco to this point. Twenty minutes calling for assistance, giving directions, frantically searching city cameras and private surveillance feeds for any sign of his employee… He only knows that John was following their Number to a drug deal, anticipating that whatever the Machine is warning them about, it would very likely happen there.

“Detective! Do you see him?” Finch is beyond trying to keep the urgent tone out of his voice. The last GPS reading put the ex-op somewhere in an alley in a warehouse district of the city, but other than that he doesn’t know anything. Doesn’t know what really happened or whether his employee is still alive or…

Finch chooses to ignore Fusco’s typical street slang response - something about wadded panties - as he ticks off the seconds in his head, waiting for the detective to provide an answer his question.

There are times when he’s very happy to sit safely in his library among his treasured books and electronic toys and play the part of John’s “handler”…but _this_ is not one of them! If it had been more expedient to drive to that location himself he would have done so, but after verifying Fusco was the closer of the two of them to that area, he chose to send in his proxy, speed being of far more importance. In addition, he is still making arrangements for transportation, a safe house, and medical experts.

That last detail he fervently hopes will not need to be expanded to include mortuary aides.

“Detective! Are you still there?” The lack of information is wrecking him. Despite his efforts to block them, images crowding his brain of John lying dead among some alley litter are becoming progressively more vivid and disturbing.

_“Got him, Professor. Let me check things out. I’ll get back to you…”_

“Oh, thank God. He’s still alive then?” he replies, all artifice forgotten as he makes no attempt to prevent relief and worry from coloring his voice.

Positive thinking…positive thinking. If you think he’s alright then he will be… Which is pure nonsense of course…but indicative of the level of stress he’s experiencing. Still, he deliberately pictures Fusco walking into a shadowy passageway, shuffling through what is probably a landfill of filth and debris, and seeing John standing there, probably dusty and dirty, with that familiar smirk he so often seems to sport around Fusco. Any minute now the cop will call back…or maybe hand John his phone and…

And since when had John Reese become such a fixture on his life’s path?

It had always been just Nathan and he for so long - through college and afterwards. Establishing their business, growing IFT literally took years, with thousands of hours of close collaboration. They had pretty much lived out of each other’s pockets during that time.

He had relied on his business partner for more than just engineering expertise; Nathan was his conduit to the real world, away from the technologies that entranced him, isolated him from other people. When Grace came along he'd become aware of more opportunities to branch out, finally recognizing there were other lanes to his path. His world expanded.

Then perversely, he'd lost them both and his sorrow became a prison in which he'd locked the door on himself, deliberately hiding, without any real connection to others. That was, until he went looking for yet another asset, someone who could help him in his obsession to save the Irrelevants. Until he'd found a burned-out ex-CIA agent.

This is just mental babble, he scolds himself, suddenly picking up the conversation on Fusco’s com.

 _“Any other holes I should know about…other than this one in your leg?”_ he hears the cop say gruffly. And his mental image changes instantly: John is on the ground surrounded by a puddle of blood.


	2. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now, for the second time in his existence he is truly thankful for the ability to command the best of everything mankind has to offer. And interestingly, it’s under almost exactly the same circumstance: John Reese is injured.  
> 

If Fusco’s talking to the ex-op that means John’s alive, right? Yes. He’s alive!

He can work with that. He did before, when Reese’s former employer decided to “eliminate” the ex-agent. He’d barely held himself together then, switching to a cognitive state in which he acted without self-awareness, running through options that would give the man the best chance at life.

It was dicey there for a while, the ex-op’s injuries were…severe. But he pulled John through, involved from start to finish in the ex-op’s recovery, from hiring the best surgeon in the city to assisting through the painful therapy that would give Reese full function of his body once more. And when boredom and inactivity threatened to drive the ex-op to possibly some extreme, self-endangering action, he moved his employee into an apartment and found a way for him to assist with a new Number.

Taking care of an asset, he tells himself, is simply practicing good economy. After all, it will take time and a lot of effort to find another to take the place of John…Mr. Reese.

_“Don’t worry, Lionel. Still above ground…”_

He jumps at the whispery voice coming over Fusco’s ear piece, his relief so palatable he has to mentally restrain himself from participating in the exchange.

 _“Yeah. I figured. Only the good die young,”_ he hears Fusco reply.

Finch frowns. These two have a relationship he has yet to understand. On one hand, the cop has become an asset and over these many weeks helped on a number of cases. But on the other, he always suspects only because of something…and he doesn’t know exactly what…that John holds over the detectives head.

The snarky remarks that pass between them only underscore a working association much less than equal: Mr. Reese is always in the driver’s seat on their particular track; Detective Fusco only reluctantly riding shot gun. But here he is, relying on that self-same detective to help save a person that the cop may sooner see permanently removed from this life!

“Detective! I’d like a report..!” Finch’s voice is sharp, a purposeful reminder he’s listening in on every word. _So don’t try anything to jeopardize John…_ He leaves the last unspoken, hanging like the sword of Damocles over this person who he has entrusted to save his employee.

At the prompt Fusco gives him a recap of the ex-op’s injuries, and as the detective leans in to check the exit wound Finch can hear Reese panting. His experience with his employee has left him with the knowledge that the ex-op has high pain threshold. So just how bad is this injury?

Fusco mentions the need for a tourniquet and Finch makes a mental note to ensure there are sufficient units of blood on hand for his medical team. The image in his head adjusts, increasing the size of the blood puddle under his employee.

_“Hey, the uni’s are on their way. We need to book outta here, but I can’t…”_

“Way ahead of you, Detective. Just get him to the street.”

_“What about my car?”_

Also not a problem. He’s been doing that at which he knows he is most skilled: multi-tasking. Detective Carter, at last free from deposition duty immediately responds to his sparsely worded request and puts herself on the team answering the 911 call. In the melee, no one will notice if she picks up Fusco’s black and white and drives it back; the other uni’s will simply assume she is riding with someone else.

And Fermin, anxious to pay back a mountainous debt of thanks, is thrilled to be of assistance. Even more fortunate is that the cabbie has just dropped off a passenger on Waverly, thus is relatively nearby. Finch gives one last command to the cop, knowing it’s intense, laced with worry and frustration - but this is certainly not the time to be concerned about phone etiquette.

“There should be a cab pulling up any minute. Get John out of that alley… _now!”_

Monitoring the progress through Fusco’s com as Reese is stabilized and pulled to his feet, Finch makes several more calls to the medical team he has on retainer - a very sizable one - and to the realtor who will open one of his nearby condos for him.

Those arrangements made he’s just in time to hear Fusco remark, _“Yeah…but just so’s you know: we still ain’t dating!”_

Finch raises his eyebrows and doesn’t even want to know what _that’s_ about…

 

***

Finally! The doors of the garage open on a muffled rumble, barely missing the roof of the cab as Fermin speeds into the vast parking area. Finch, impatiently, fretfully, worriedly waiting on this arrival, hurries to meet the car, only just now conscious of his overwhelming need to see for himself that John…Mr. Reese…is indeed still among the living.

The two medical aides, executing perfectly choreographed moves, extract his unconscious employee from the cab, as he, Fusco, and Fermin hover nearby. It’s testimony to his anxious state, he thinks, that he has the incongruous thought these husky aids must practice this type event in their spare time. As well they should, considering the handsome salary he pays them!

When all three men offer to help, the mountainous duo politely but firmly refuse, and with minimum fuss and economy of motion, maneuver John in position to lie on the gurney. The burly pair then gently stretch the ex-op out on the narrow mattress, and at that point the ex-agent seems to come out of his stupor, groaning in pain. Unable to school his expression quickly enough, Finch winces at the sound compelling John to turn to him. The ex-op attempts to sit but the feat is beyond the injured mans ability and he falls back onto the mattress, now truly unconscious.

_Oh, God! Let me have been in time…_

Finch shakes his head. For one who’s never been much of a believer…well, not in anything beyond technology…he seems to be saying that a lot! But if there is such a thing as a divine being, he hopes he will be forgiven his inattentiveness and that John will be allowed to make it through this ordeal alive!

And there is Fusco, with an expression that reminds him of Bear on those occasions the dog is left at the library alone, watching his Alpha leave. In spite of all his misgivings, he has to admit that the detective has come through…again. And for that he owes the cop a debt of gratitude.

Tearing himself away from the gurney now being rolled gently across the parking space to the elevator, he limps quickly to the cop.

“Thank you Detective. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help you but I had to arrange for the appropriate facilities for Mr. Reese.” And with a calm he is far from feeling, he hurries to catch the elevator door before it closes.

 

***

He’s very aware that there are big advantages to being rich, but it’s not ever anything he’s really analyzed before.

The company he and Nathan built is widely successful, primarily because of his ability to create technologies that are valued and sought after by others. But the money was never the driving force; it has always been curiosity, the challenge, a desire for more explanations that drove him.

If the result of all that made him a very rich man…well, he supposes that is icing on the cake.

But now, for the second time in his existence he fully appreciates the ability to command the best of everything mankind has to offer. And interestingly, it’s under almost exactly the same circumstance: John Reese is injured.

When his employee was seriously wounded the first time, he had scrambled to assemble the expertise that would give the ex-op the very best chance at recovery. He should have just written a procedural manual for the event, since it seems likely now this will not be the last time he has to pull together these teams! But whatever the future, he has the process in hand, running smoothly.

Finch insists on being in the clean room while surgeons evaluate the wound and block the copious bleeders, but the medical staff stands firm: they will not risk the well being of their patient simply because a person close to having an anxiety attack wants reassurance. And thus a rather large nurse gently but firmly keeps him out of the way in the exclusive, well appointed waiting room, never leaving him alone other than to bring him terrible tasting tea and vending machine calories.

 _Brunhilda,_ he calls her in his mind.

Once Reese is back in a private room, the geek spends long hours simply sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to the hospital bed, glancing anxiously at the still form of his employee with every change in measured breathing. He hovers around the various nurses and doctors as they check vitals, poke, and prod while making copious notes on their clip board forms.

Which he scrutinizes the second they exit the room.

He even brings Bear into the room, with some vague thought that the presence of the dog will help accelerate his employees healing process. John is unresponsive for the first several days, and then even when finally conscious, meekly allows any and all personal to position, feed, and medicate him.

That is, until the pain meds are reduced. As the ex-op truly awakes and becomes more aware their surroundings, his employee also becomes more intractable.

“You didn’t eat much of that lunch…” Finch says one particularly trying afternoon.

“Why…do you want it? I’ll warn you though: the chicken tastes like shoe leather and the mashed potatoes like paste!”

“Oh, so you’ve now become a culinary expert on hospital food?” Finch responds, removing the tray before it can be shoved aside, with the distinct possibility of ending up on the floor.

“I’ve had better tasting K-rations…and that’s saying something!”

Finch gives the ex-op an exasperated look. It's going to be a long day...


	3. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I really don’t think your bed is the proper place for Bear. For any dog….” he begins. His medical director frowns on even having the animal in the facility, much less on a recovery room bed.

Yes, it’s becoming abundantly clear that Mr. Reese is well on the road to recovery, the exchange concerning hospital food being only the latest example of their chafing relationship. 

Finch spends the large part of everyday monitoring the ex-ops therapy sessions, and while the ex-soldier is as disciplined as one would expect, never shirking his physical exercises, there is that tendency to over-do them to the point of excess…causing the occasional setback. Something of which of course he dutifully reminds his employee, along with the fact that this is the second wound to the same leg.

“I know my limits, Finch..!”

“Then why were you walking so stiffly this morning?” he asks, fast becoming as frustrated as his patient. 

“Maybe I’m just trying to imitate my boss…!” is the biting response. But not seconds later John continues softly. “A joke Finch. In very poor taste and I apologize. I didn’t mean anything by it…”

Finch merely shakes his head, but for a few days thereafter each is very careful to rein in any intemperate comment. 

The Machine continues to spew Numbers and between what he deems as his duty to oversee his employee’s recovery, he carries on with the necessary data searches in the effort prevent the untimely deaths the Machine predicts. But without John to do the leg work, it’s an exceedingly difficult task…

He refuses to discuss any of the cases with John, knowing instinctively that the ex-op will likely leave the facility to help…and re-injure himself in the process. So he juggles as best he can those responsibilities to the Machine and to his employee, ignoring the ever growing friction between them.

Every evening he stops by the library to process the massive amount of details required to run the several enterprises he manages under his various aliases. Each morning he makes his way back to the elite facility he also owns. But he seems to have little success in controlling John as the ex-op becomes more restive with each passing day.

“So what happened to your phone?” he asks one afternoon, annoyed with his employee’s insistence on walking the hallways, and hoping a conversation will keep him off his feet for a while. Even assisted by a crutch, it’s apparent John is pushing himself, not so much for reasons of rehabilitation, but now out of sheer boredom.

“It died, Finch. Murdered. A horrible crushing death by foot.”

“Did you at least recover the sim?”

“I doubt there’s anything left to recover.” On at that response, Finch makes a mental note to send one of his minions to scour the alley ground…just in case. It’s part of their protocol to wipe the phones each day in case of just such an incident, but one can never be too careful.

“You know, all of this could have been prevented if you’d arranged for some back-up. Detective Carter…”

“…has her own job. This is what you hired _me_ for, Finch.” is the annoyed reply.

“Yes, but…you could have easily died in that alley. If Fusco hadn’t gotten there in time…”

“Harold…! It’s all right. I’m not mortally wounded, never was.” Reese smiles, softening his tone as he reaches for a lighter tone. “Besides, like Fusco said, ‘Only the good die young’.”

Finch snorts. Yes, he’d heard that, and wasn’t particularly amused. He moves on to a different subject, this one at the request of his medical team.

“I really don’t think your bed is the proper place for Bear. For any dog….” he begins. His medical director frowns on even having the animal in the facility, much less on a recovery room bed.

Bear, lying snuggled comfortably against his Alpha, had long ago connected the sound of “dog” as being synonymous with his name and now looks from one human to the other, his paws firmly holding an extra pillow in place. 

“He’s family, Finch.”

“He’s a dog, Mr. Reese.” 

“Yes, but he’s also your dog. And if your money can’t buy him a place on this bed, what good is it?” the ex-op replies, stroking the animal’s ears while Bear grunts with pure bliss. “Just give them another medical toy…or hospital wing, or something…” 

Finch sighs. This is not an argument he will win, because John is correct: he has unlimited privileges in this facility and there is not a staff member that will refuse any of his requests. Except, apparently, being present in an operating room. 

During the long weeks it takes his employee to recover, he continues working the Numbers alone…and somewhat to his surprise, successfully. He is determined not to call the detective duo, concerned it will jeopardize this temporary cover for himself and John. 

But if he were completely truthful with himself, this is also a test. The latest fiasco in the alley is not the first time he has almost lost his prime asset in this suicide mission to save irrelevant strangers. If there is a third time, and it results in the permanent loss of this partner… 

This is an experiment presented by that logical part of his brain to determine if he can continue to handle the mission on his own. Because the thought of having to find someone to replace Mr. Reese…John…is unpalatable. 

Fortunately, for whatever reason, a lull appeared during these last few weeks in the download of Machine Numbers. Perhaps a bettering of the city economy, or the spring weather, or who knows…the phase of the moon! 

In any case he manages to handle both the few Irrelevants given to him and still finds time to appease the ever restless ex-op, though he impatiently counts down the days when the two of them will be back in the library doing their familiar routine. Meanwhile all is well, and he congratulates himself for having everything under control.

Until he is given three Numbers in close succession.

***

Finch reviews the data on each Irrelevant and his dwindling options. A decision needs to be made: he can turn the abused woman’s case over to the NYPD, he can handle the senior citizen scammer himself…but that leaves one more.

“You can’t do this, John!”

“Don’t tell me what I can’t do, Finch,” the ex-op responds. “My leg is almost back to normal; I only need the crutch occasionally now when I get tired…”

“Oh, and you are going to be able to fight with that? Should be interesting: incapacitation by crutch! Running should be an even more remarkable feat…unless you think motivating with a third leg is an advantage!”

The two of them have been arguing along these lines ever since John unearthed the issue of the multiple Numbers and Finch’s consideration to drop one of the cases they had just been given. It was not an option the geek cared to implement, but he was more concerned that John would attempt to involve himself before being physically whole.

“Seems to me I did very well on a crutch that last time! Or have you forgotten how we had to work together to save the chef?”

“No, I have not! But that was also not something I had planned originally. I still chastise myself for not being able to handle the physical actions by myself... you were to stay in that room and monitor _me_ , remember?” he replies with some heat. How is it that John can always annoy him so? No one else has that ability…well, not anymore, not since Nathan.

“Harold…” Reese begins in a placating tone, “Give me some credit here. I’m just as concerned about your safety as you are about mine. There’s got to be another solution.”

***

Finch studies his employee for any sign of unsteadiness as John deftly balances the crutch, gently putting weight on his almost fully healed leg. But the ex-op seems to be in no danger of falling and he allows himself a sigh of relief. Soon they will be back in the library. Bear will be very happy about that…

After much discussion they have finally reached an agreement, a compromise…not one that he totally embraces but one that will at least preserve John’s well being. This time. Now he waits as Reese taps in a number on the new phone.

“Hello, Lionel. Miss me?”

And he wonders at the slow smile dawning on the ex-ops face…

\- End -


End file.
